


oral thesis on ontology

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Smut, Trope: Mulder loves going down on Scully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 07:54:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12766482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: Mulder appreciates his partner.





	oral thesis on ontology

Underneath the sole basement lamplight, dressed in her slippy-slidey black velvet cocktail dress, her stacked party heels discarded somewhere over by the doorway, she sighs and lets the file she’d been pouring slide to the floor. She glares at the hands creeping up over her knees, dangerously close to her hemline.  


“You told me you had some kind of great epiphany regarding a previous case that required our immediate attention.” She sighs. “Why do I get the feeling I’ve been played?”

“You wanna be played, Scully?” He loves her in velvet; the shock of how much softer her skin is underneath always tugs at him. He crushes the fabric in one hand and lets his other do all the major pawing.

“Mulder, the office party,” she reminds him, sighing yet again. “You promised me we’d go back.”

“Scully, you went straight to the open bar as soon as we got here.” Which explains why she’s spreading her legs even as she complains, helping him roll her dress up to her waist. Or why she sat on the desk right in front of his face in the first place, drawing his attention like a domed silver platter. “You didn’t want to be up there anymore than I did!”

“We haven’t even eaten yet, Mulder,” she whines. A sudden change of heart, and then she’s rolling her dress back down as he fights her to ruck it back up. “They had it catered! There’s a vegetarian option!”

“Why would I go up there to eat?” Finally, his hands reach between her thighs, kneading their downy warmth, their tired muscles relaxing under his touch. He licks his lips and kisses her where her bellybutton would be under the dress. “When there’s perfectly good pussy right in front of me?”

_WHAP._ He takes her beaded clutch straight to the face as he collapses back in his chair, the laughter making him gasp and giggle and squint his eyes as she continues her bombardment. “Don’t.” Whap. “Be.” Whap. “Rude.” Whap. “Fox.” Whap whap whap. “Mulder!”

But when her assault dies down and gets a good look at her, he sees rouged cheeks turn a more natural pink, a thin coat of glossy saliva over matte red lipstick, lined blue flame filled with smoke and desire. She likes him a little crude. 

He smiles a dopey, innocent smile, hands delving back under the dress without breaking their shared gaze. No hesitation this time, his fingers go straight for the crotch of her black, lacy panties, finding them to be wet.

Very wet.

“Maybe you liked that party more than I thought,” he grunts, pressing down harder. She pours backwards over the desk like melted chocolate, making herself completely vulnerable. “You’re right. Why don’t we go back?”

“Shut up, Mulder.” She waves her hand vageuly downward as he pulls his hand away and rolls up his sleeves. “Get it all out. Then we’ll go back.”

“Yes ma’am,” he lies, reaching underneath her knees to break them apart. He kisses her through her ruined panties, open mouthed, lets his tongue sample the bitter taste of the perfume she’d dabbed between her thighs, kisses and tugs at her swollen lips as they become visible through the cloth.

Fuck. Yes. He tears them off when she starts moaning and lightly thrusting toward his mouth. He buries his face in red fur, inhales deeply, nips at her, and splits her labia with the flat of his tongue, pushing against her with his chin. He gets high.

Going down on Scully is something of an obsession. It helps that he loves pussy, has always craved, worshiped, been awed by the mere _existence_ of pussy, and it helps that her pussy is simply the best pussy there ever was or ever will be, by taste, feel, depth, warmth, appearance, the metaphysical implications of it even existing in this world – oh, the questions he has! The haecceity of Scully! What makes Scully _Scully_? He likes to think she never truly lived until she experienced the feel of his stubble rubbing her raw. No. Like the creation of Adam it was the gentle, reaching touch of his tongue to her clit which brought her to life, and yes, she had kicked and she had screamed. No wonder he spends as much time these days trying to get at it as he does the fucking lights in the sky, one hand wrapped around his flashlight, the other shoved down her pants.

Getting as physically close to the one place duty and honor has kept him from so long also plays a part of it. He nosedives. He goes all in. It’s a giant _FUCK YOU_ to the establishment every time he pops up from between her legs, gulping for air and dripping like he’d just breastroked his way across the Atlantic. It’s a triumphant, momentous occasion. The crowd roars and Scully comes and he plants his flag straight into Portugal as the panel throws up their scorecards and scatters ribbons at his feet. For the man who’s never won a single good thing in his life, it is a heady experience.

But at the center of it all, at the center of everything he is lately, is that it is a surefire way to bring happiness to Scully – an achievement he once convinced himself he was incapable of. There’s no real way to measure it, and he’s pretty certain she’s not down for anything resembling a peer review, but it’s simply a matter of fact that no one on earth could ever be as happy as Scully is when she’s grinding all over his face. It honestly restores his shoddy faith in a broken world. How bad could it be, really, if he has the ability to make a woman like _this_ tremble like _that?_ Make her bounce and rattle and leap for the sheer joy of it all?

He looks up, hoping to catch her watching him so he can watch back, maybe finish her off as they stare into each other’s eyes. He prods her fat, hard clit and he nibbles it. But she’s not looking at him… she’s looking through another file, her chin tucked into her shoulder. Pages shuffle.

It’s not her fault. They’re both tipsy and he can take a guess at all the worries flying through her mind. _Did he lock the door_ – of course he did – _does anyone know that we’re missing_ – who gives a shit – _am I enabling this man, his neanderthal tendencies, and his seemingly Freudian desire to return to the safety of the womb by lying back and letting him try his damndest_ – absolutely yes you are, Scully, and I consider your enabling nature to be one of your best qualities. But he needs her to focus, and he deals with the problem accordingly.

His hands that are gripping and caressing the sides of her thighs as he pulls her to his mouth slide down to cup her ass and hoist her up, angling her closer to his face. In broad strokes, his tongue works over her asshole, laving that overwhelmingly adorable ring of puckered skin and muscle he’d been slowly getting to know better as of late. He knows he has her when she drops the book and the stapler go flying to the floor as she holds onto the edge of the desk for dear life. His eyes roll up to her face, and she appears as if she’d just seen a ghost: a ghost that offered up a spectacularly mean rimjob.

“Pay attention to me,” he demands petulantly, shooting her a stern look and licking her from perineum to clit. The difference astounds him. She is flooded, and his nose, cheeks and chin glide through her flesh with remarkable ease.

“What has gotten _into_ you? What were you reading?” She gasps, feeling around through clutter, knocking over more supplies, and her movement is a series of enticing wiggles. He moans appreciatively, pushing his tongue inside of her and shuddering as her cunt squeezes around it.

He hears her flipping through more pages, this time of the book he’d been reading before he’d given up and decided to seduce her, and then her loud groan as she her head drops back and thunks against the wood. “ _Search for the Yeti._ You’re sick, Mulder.”

He laughs into her and she laughs at him and then she stops laughing and then she’s got a fist full of his hair and he’s got extremely limited access to oxygen. His nose mashes up against her clit, and the noises his tongue makes as it fucks deep inside of her pussy force him to call the game and reach down to rub his leaking cock through his slacks. The pressure is unbearable.

With her hand holding him down he can’t look up to see her face, but he can’t bring himself to open up his eyes either. It scares him a little how far gone he gets, ascending to interfold of sub and normal space while folded up inside of her. At some point it’s utter bliss, but he’s forgotten the meaning of the word, of all words. Is it like that for her? Does she look down to see that it’s _him_ bowing down at her altar and saying I’m sorry, and saying I love you, and saying come with me, and saying complete me? Does she look down at his big ol’ nose and his disappointing haircut and think _dear God, it’s Mulder_ , and that’s when she loses it, the way he thinks _Jesus, this is Scully_ when he gets that first taste and it’s as recognizable as the back of his fucking hand?

She pulses, flutters, crackles, and he knows it’s time. Her fine strong thighs shake and he kisses her right on her clit, then slips it into his mouth, rolling and sucking. Her clit really is his best friend. The stock-still silence of the room alerts him to just how very close she is – she always goes quiet right before – and he strokes her with reverence, pushing past the burning ache in his jaw, the stinging in his frenulum, and painful strain of his erection spearing a hole through his pants even as he humps his hand in earnest. _Come on_ , he tells her, _come on, I need this more than you._

He freezes when her thighs clamp around his ears in a vice grip, unable to help it as he is both filled with mild panic and shocking heat. He pulls back, trying to dislodge her, then taps her on her thigh when she refuses to let up.

“Make me come and maybe I’ll let you live,” she barely laughs, riding his trapped jaw and cheeks. He jerks and comes, unexpected, in long, agonizing pulses, coating his thigh and the inside of his boxers with wet and warmth. With a few more desperate, whimpering sucks, she’s coming too, her opening twitching against his chin, her clit beating wildly against his tongue like a tiny heart.

Her legs fall apart and he gasps like he’s never taken a breath before in his life, pressing his face to her thigh and breathing deeply until the air is restored in his lungs.

“We’re not going back to that party, are we?” She pants. He barks in laughter, shaking his head, tickling her thigh with his hair. “You made a mess.”

“I sure did, Scully,” he says.


End file.
